All Day and a Night (7 page)

The 78th Precinct that serviced Park Slope was on Sixth Avenue, just off of Flatbush, a couple blocks south of Atlantic. This was considered Prospect Heights, not Park Slope. There was a time, just a few years ago, when that geographic third of a mile represented a far larger cultural gap. When Ellie thought of Park Slope, she immediately conjured a stereotype of well-to-do mommies pushing strollers between natural-food co-ops, book clubs, and baby-and-me yoga classes. Prospect Heights, by contrast, was known for an eclectic mix of ages, incomes, and races. But now, thanks to an influx of big money from the Barclays Center and Atlantic Yards development project, younger, richer, whiter people were pouring into the area.

Even the precinct house looked the part. A nice, neat, five-story cube of stone and brick, the building seemed more like a public library or historic boutique hotel than a police precinct.

Ellie paused as she reached for the front door’s handle. “We’re sure we don’t have a friend who can help smooth over the introduction?”

“Sorry.”

They’d been on the receiving end of what was about to happen. Feds took over a local angle. Once it had been the state police. The worst was when cases were reassigned to another team based on nothing more than budgetary considerations. Whatever the reason, they both knew what it was like to be pulled from a case. And they both knew it was hard not to blame whoever was taking over, no matter what the circumstances. But here they were, about to take away a high-profile case because some obscure unit in the district attorney’s office had said so.

They told the civilian aide at the front desk they were there to see Detective Tommy Santos. Ellie had asked around about him before heading out to Brooklyn. He was a fifteen-year veteran. Supposedly hardworking, the older of the two partners. The smarter, as well. Straight arrow. Married. Kids. Church. He had promised to be available to meet with them.

Before the assistant was out of his chair to show them the way, they heard a loud voice from the squad room. “I got ’em, Roxie. They’re getting the luxury treatment. I got a room booked and everything. Champagne on the nightstand.”

So that’s how this was going to go.

But when Santos greeted them, he seemed utterly sincere. “You two here to steal the front page from us, huh?” Once again, it was the kind of sentence that could easily be construed as snide, but the visual cues told a different story. Santos approached them with outstretched arms, then offered each of them a vigorous handshake. Even his eyes smiled. If not for the bumps in a nose that Ellie guessed had been broken at least twice, she wouldn’t have imagined a confrontational side to the man.

The reserved room turned out to be an interrogation room down the hall. No champagne in sight.

“Sorry Mike couldn’t make it.” Michael Hayes was Santos’s partner. “He’s interviewing a witness in federal custody down at MDC, but I can tell you everything you need to get started.” Ellie had spent more than enough time dealing with the bureaucracy of the Metropolitan Detention Center to understand why they weren’t waiting for Hayes.

“We appreciate the cooperation,” Rogan offered. “We all know how it feels to have a case reassigned midstream.”

“No kidding, midstream. Like pissing into a urinal and realizing it’s the queen’s china. Got to cut it off quick, you know. Sorry, no offense.”

“None taken,” Ellie said.

“This won’t even take long. A lot of cases, what you read in the paper isn’t even close to what we’re actually working. This one? Media’s got a lot of the story right. Helen was exactly what she seemed: respected therapist, good mom, no problems until the divorce. Not like what usually lies behind the front page, you know?”

They did know. Crime reporters loved to spin tales of good versus evil: innocent people minding their own business until they ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. The more tawdry papers used words like
fiend
,
lowlife
, and
scoundrel
for the perpetrators;
honor student
,
devoted husband
, and
beloved mother
for the victims. But more often than not, the truth behind those cases was more complex. Honor students could be bullies. The apparently devoted husband could be frequenting prostitutes on the side. And sometimes beloved mothers sold drugs to other beloved mothers at the health club to help cover private tuition. Wrong place, wrong time, but more complicated than the fairy tales would suggest.

Santos was saying that there was no evidence that Helen Brunswick had been living a secret, more dangerous life.

“I gotta admit,” he said, “even I kind of lost it when we saw the kids at the house. You guys—you look young, but you know how you get used to it. So imagine an old guy like me. We see the two kids crying with their dad when he gives them the news. And then we check out the apartment and it’s all done up. Decorated. It was supposed to be a real family night.”

“Watching the Academy Awards?” Ellie had read that detail somewhere.

“Yeah. I guess the parents always made a big deal out of things that they could all enjoy together at home. Any kind of
event
—Super Bowl Sunday, election night, the Grammys, Golden Globes. They’d dress up and decorate. Cast ballots or make little bets. You should have seen the lengths these kids had gone to.” Ellie could tell he was reliving the moment in the Brunswicks’ townhouse. “It was a Sunday, and the dad—Mitch Brunswick, he’s an endocrinologist—I guess they’re for diabetes and whatnot. He was scheduled to bring the kids back to the mom that night for a custody swap. But an evening drop-off wouldn’t leave time to set up for the award show. So Mitch brings the kids to Brooklyn early, right when Helen heads to the office for her weekend appointments, and the three of them all work on the preparations together—even though Mitch isn’t staying. Those poor kids, man. They were devastated.”

“When was Helen supposed to be back?” Rogan asked.

“Her last appointment was at four o’clock. An hour appointment is actually only fifty minutes in therapist time, plus a few minutes to wrap up, plus the walk home, so she had told the kids five-thirty at the absolute latest. The kids even made a signature drink, no booze. Anyway, at five forty-five, Mitch starts calling Helen’s cell phone.” Santos acted out a phone with his fingers against his ear. “The kids start worrying when red-carpet time starts without Mom, but as the hour hand moves, Mitch admits he started getting angry, thinking she was doing this to blame him for her having to work extra hours on the weekend. By the time the opening monologue starts without her, he’s fed up. He leaves the kids alone and walks up to her office. Gets no answer on the outside buzzer. Has to stand around on the street until a screenwriter who uses the top floor as a writing space shows up with a key. Screenwriter tells him to fuck off—he’s not letting anyone into the building—until Mitch pulls out his ID. Shows him that his last name matches the plate on the building for Dr. Helen Brunswick. Tells the guy he’s free to call the police if he’s worried it’s not legit. They walk into the office together and find her body on the floor. Two bullets in the chest.”

Ellie hadn’t realized from the news coverage that another person was there when Mitch Brunswick had discovered the body.

“You’re absolutely sure he was with the kids the whole time before he connected with the screenwriter at the building?” Ellie asked.

“Absolutely. One of the first things we checked. The kids backed him up, plus he was sending e-mails from his iPad while he was at the house. He used the wireless network there to send them. It was only fifteen minutes later that he showed up begging to be let into his wife’s office.”

“When did you realize the victim’s arms had been broken?” Rogan asked.

“You could tell there was something wrong just by looking at her, like she was a doll whose arms had been removed and placed on backwards.”

“So Mitch Brunswick would have been able to draw the same conclusion when he found the body.” Rogan’s thought came out like a statement, not a question. If they could prove Brunswick was the one who wrote the anonymous letter to the district attorney’s office, they might be able to wrap this assignment up quickly.

“Obvious. Like, two-plus-two-equals-four obvious,” Santos said. “But we assumed it was something that happened in a struggle. Or you start wondering if she’d been tortured. Then the autopsy results came in.”

“You held back the fact of the postmortem fractures from the public,” Ellie said. “But what about the husband? Did he know that detail?”

“We didn’t tell him, that’s for sure. And there would be no way of knowing from looking at the body. When someone’s heart is beating, blood forms around the bone break. But if the injuries are inflicted postmortem, they call it ‘effectively bloodless,’ because there’s so little blood. No, it takes the autopsy to know that. Unless, of course, he was the one who did it.”

“But you’ve got his timeline locked down,” Rogan said. “You think he hired someone for the job?”

“Wouldn’t be the first husband to go that route. And maybe, for good measure, he had them replicate the MO of an old serial killer case from upstate New York.”

“Sounds a little far-fetched,” Ellie said.

Santos gave a look to Rogan, like,
How do you put up with her
? It suddenly dawned on her that, just as they had asked about his reputation, he may have done the same with them, in which case he could have heard about her relationship with Max.

“And the alternative isn’t?” he asked. “A serial killer got away with six murders eighteen years ago and suddenly decided not only to reappear, but to let the DA’s office know about it with a letter? No way, José. Not to mention that theory only works if Anthony Amaro is innocent. The man confessed, and to no less a cop than Buck Majors.”

“Who’s Buck Majors?” Ellie asked.

Another look at Rogan, but his face was blank too. “Boy, they weren’t kidding about a fresh look, were they? When it came to closing cases, Buck was the man. The department used to have him dole out lessons on how to remain in control of the box. A master interrogator. A legend. He could get a guy to confess, and then thank him for the privilege. If Majors said Amaro was guilty, he’s guilty. Hate to break it to you, but the DA’s putting you through the wringer, all because of some ridiculous letter. He doesn’t want the liberal elites who have taken over this city to accuse him of ignoring
exculpatory evidence
.” He spoke the term like it was an obscenity.

“Trust me on this: stick with the husband. He’s playing like he’s full of regret about the breakup, but he’s got a girlfriend. Even popped the question, but when she got a look at his finances, spread thin between two houses and paying alimony, she got cold feet. Man wants to put a ring on it.” He held up his left hand. “No more Helen means only one roof to pay for. We’ve just been waiting for a break.”

“And now we come along and take it from you,” Rogan said. “I think if I were you, I’d be a lot more upset about that.”

The same smile that had greeted them returned as Santos reached into his suit jacket and retrieved a folded page from his pocket. “Opened this right before you called. Check out the letterhead.”

       
The Law Offices of Linda Moreland, Esq
.

It was a notice of representation, alerting both the NYPD and the New York County District Attorney’s Office that Linda Moreland was now the attorney of record for Anthony Amaro. Attached to the letter were copies of a motion to vacate Amaro’s conviction and a demand to review the entire investigative file and all prosecution records to search for evidence exculpating her client. A separate demand requested access to all records documenting any confessions elicited by NYPD detective Buck Majors. The letter was signed by
Caroline Blank, Associate
.

Ellie had never heard of Caroline Blank, but she was definitely familiar with Linda Moreland. She’d made a national name for herself in a short time span by taking on claims of innocence by defendants who had already been convicted.

“The woman believes every inmate is innocent and every cop’s a criminal.” Santos refolded the letter neatly and tucked it into Rogan’s front jacket pocket. “Have fun with that ‘fresh look’ investigation. Before you know it, you might be famous.”

C
arrie Blank pondered the documents spread across the table in front of her. When she’d arrived this morning at the Law Offices of Linda Moreland, LLC, she had found them thrown together in a cardboard box, pages facing in eight different directions, some folded in half or thirds, some paper-clipped or stapled together for no obvious reason. After two hours, she had arranged them in reverse chronological order.

The most recent was the letter Linda Moreland had received ten days earlier from “the client” (would she ever get used to thinking of Anthony Amaro as
the client
?):

       
Dear Ms. Moreland
,

I just saw you on television from Five Points Correctional Facility talking about the case of Jerrod Carter, who is also currently inprisoned here. When you said the name of the “DETECTIVE” who supposedly got him to confess—Buck Majors—I nearly cleaned out my ears to make sure I heard you right
.

I have now conversed with Jerrod Carter about his case. Most importantly, we have compared notes about Buck Majors and our so-called confessions. I have come to believe that your work for Jerrod Carter was meant to bring you to me, or visa-versa. Please hear me out, because I promise you will be interested
.

A couple weeks ago, I recieved a letter claiming that a female doctor was killed in Brooklyn, alledgley by the same way I was alledgd to kill my alledgd victims. I can’t send you the exact letter since its all the proof I have, but here’s the important part: “Helen Brunswick, murdered in Park Slope. The newspapers aren’t saying, but both her arms were broken AFTER she was killed, just like with the ladies you supposedly murdered. Now what are the odds of that, and how come the NYPD doesn’t want you to know
?”